


Hiding Just to Breathe

by viv_is_spooky



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, BPD Tim, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Gerry is still being haunted and is Done with it, Grief, It is summer of 2013, M/M, Oneshot, POTS Gerry, Pre-Canon, Questionable Coping Mechanisms, Tim JUST recently lost Danny, again not central but there are references to it, and they comfort each other a bit, meet cute of sorts, not central but there’s a little reference to it, not explicitly shippy but they’re definitely flirting, really there isn’t much plot here, they’re both haunted and at a party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:22:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27719494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viv_is_spooky/pseuds/viv_is_spooky
Summary: Tim shouldn’t care about the unfamiliar person he sees slumped against the wall across the room from him. The problem is that hedoes.
Relationships: Gerard Keay & Tim Stoker, Gerard Keay/Tim Stoker
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41





	Hiding Just to Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> Song Recommendations: “Haunted House” by Sir Babygirl and “Rearrange” by Vérité
> 
>  **cw: brief mention of hopelessness bordering on suicidal ideation** (between “fake it ‘till you make it, right?” and “ _Oh._ ”)

Tim came to this party to drink, to dance, to scream aloud to lyrics until his voice went hoarse in a way he wouldn’t dare let himself scream anywhere else. The need to forget surges through his brain, panicked as it fights endlessly against the jumble of emotions burning in his bloodstream, the cacophony of a building too-much that periodically overflows, flows until he’s hollow. He doesn’t want to feel it all anymore, because no matter how much blame is on his shoulders for how he handled the nightmare scene at Covent Garden, he doesn’t know how many of the tangled feelings of grief he can allow to course through him undulled without collapsing.

The train of thought makes no sense, but he rides it anyway, hoping in its nonsensical twists and turns to find some -  _ any _ \- sort of escape.

If there’s a point, the point is this: he shouldn’t care about the unfamiliar person he sees slumped against the wall across the room from him, shouldn’t feel concern for how they’ve sunk to the floor and curled in on themselves.

The problem is that he  _ does_, because a few minutes ago they had briefly looked up, locking eyes with him for a moment before they dropped their head back into their hands. And in that moment, their eyes had looked just as haunted as those of the reflection Tim sees when he looks in the mirror.

How could he _not_ reach out for that connection, now that he’s seen it?

So he crosses the floor, against his better judgment (but really, he hasn’t been listening to _that_ at the  best of times lately) and leans against the wall, slowly sliding down to sit next to the stranger.

They bring their head up from their hands and look over with a small smile, the silver of their lip ring glinting in the flash of a strobe light. Tim notices small tattoos on either side of their jaw, and one in the center of their neck, but he can’t quite figure out what they are beneath the ever-changing flashes of color from above.

After a long moment of the stranger staring at him, tilting their head curiously as they seem to study his features, Tim realizes that he’ll have to be the one to start the conversation. “Hey there. You alright?”

They blink as if startled out of thought, then answer, “Don’t worry about me when the aftershock of the show still shimmers on your skin.”

Tim barely manages to stifle a gasp at the word “show,” so closely followed by “skin.” The  _ hell _ are they talking about? They can’t _possibly_ know, can they?

No. No, they can’t. Besides, he’s here to forget. So he pretends not to have noticed the nonsequitor - fake it ‘til you make it, right?

Tim doesn’t really know if he  _ wants _ to “make it” anymore, but the phrase will work for now. The show must...oh. _Oh_. Even that expression is part of the wreckage now. Tim forces his mind away from remembering the last time he heard those words aloud. “Drink a little more than you’re used to?” he asks the person beside him, forcing the corners of his mouth up into a small smile to keep some levity in his tone.

The stranger turns their cheek to rest against the wall behind them. Their eyes are a luminescent gray, surprisingly free of cloudiness but slightly unfocused. “I don’t drink,” they rasp, “‘m just dizzy.”

“Well, I can tell you right now the music’s not helping that. It’s  _ loud _ in here.” Tim likes loud music because it drowns out his thoughts, but something tells him this person is already drowning enough without the added waves of the beat rattling through floorboards beneath them.

They let out a little huff of air and shift their sitting position, bracing one forearm against the wall as they turn inwards towards Tim. Tilting theirhead a bit, they let a curtain of inky black hair fall partway across their face and respond, “Can’t move. Not like this.” One heavy-lidded eye stays visible to Tim, sweeping over his features again. Still curious, searching, in a way that  _ should _ be unnerving but somehow isn’t.

It’s been a while since someone looked at him,  _ really _ looked at him, and he finds himself drinking in the attention with a desperation he hopes isn’t visible on his face.

He’ll just...wait here with them, if they can’t move right now. Not like he had anything better planned for the night.

He should probably introduce himself, though. So, holding out his hand, he says, “I’m Tim.”

The hand that meets his is startlingly warm, the skin uneven, long fingers wrapping around his palm with a firm grip. ”Gera- _ no_. No, G _erry _ .”

They don’t let go of his hand, and he doesn’t mind at all, shifting to intertwine their fingers with his. He looks down to see chipped black nail polish, burn scars, more small tattoos - one on each joint, maybe. When he glances back up, Gerry has shifted a bit closer, both eyes visible again as a small, hopeful smile lights up their face.

_ Hopeful_ _._ Yeah, Tim thinks he feels that way too. It’s foreign, heady, the kind of feeling he’s learned not to rush recklessly into in search of solace. But it’s something he hasn’t felt since July tore into him like a knife, so he welcomes it without hesitation.


End file.
